


Le Gambe Stanno Cedendo

by sleazyjanet



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 11:20:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20545298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleazyjanet/pseuds/sleazyjanet
Summary: In 19th century, not long after Oscar Wilde is arrested for gross misconduct, Aziraphale, a rich homosexual man who's sort of an outcast of his family, wants to write a pamphlet about homosexuality and inadvertedly drop his drink, which sparks a conversation between him and a rather smart waiter.





	Le Gambe Stanno Cedendo

**Author's Note:**

> HULLO it's me again! i hope this fic makes you forgive me for my previous one, for this is definitely the one most charged with pining. at least i hope it's pining. either way, i hope you enjoy my entry for day 6 of the #gomensficweek2019
> 
> shoutout to the msfc
> 
> signed, a rat

**Aziraphale, 5th May 1895**

  
  


The party is exciting. Everyone is having the best of fun, dancing around, talking to each other and drinking all the possible beverages, eating until they need to puke.

Everyone, but Aziraphale. Eat, he does, as usual, and there's two glasses clinking together in his right hand while his left scribbles at the paper he's laid on his legs in a desperate attempt to do  _ anything. _

Everyone ignores him, as always. Gabriel, his cousin, organized this party, which means, of course, Aziraphale has no way of fraternizing with anyone. Not that he cares to, too much. There's way too many opinions swirling in his mind and though nobody will ever read them, he finds it very important to speak his mind, even so uselessly, lest he forgets how to.

And after having read Oscar Wilde's Picture of Dorian Gray he must needs explore all the hidden passages in the novel. There are clear signs in it, for one, of Oscar's own homosexuality, and his love for beauty —  _ male _ beauty — and if there's one subject Aziraphale Fell concerns himself with is homosexuality, and all its aspects.

Truthfully, though he knows it's futile to even try, he is trying to write a paper, a pamphlet of sorts, on why homosexuality —  _ sodomy  _ — should be decriminalized.

He's glad no one really pays him any attention, or he'd have Hell to pay and a sure arrest if anyone were to find out. 

_ 'Homosexuality — as it ought to be called, rather than the terrible noun «sodomy» that implies only a physical attraction between partners of the same sex, rather than romantic ones as well, driven by a passion and not a need to be submitted to somebody else — ought not to be criminalized and here's why.' _

_ CRASH! _

As caught up as he is in his essay, he doesn't notice the glass slipping from his grip until it falls and breaks on the floor.

Immediately, there's a forty-something years old waiter running to his post to gather the pieces.  _ Oddly old for a waiter _ , Aziraphale frowns, and berates his own aestheticism in such an awkward situation.

He bends over the exact moment that the younger man does as well. "Let me," he whines sheepishly, "I'm rather clumsy, it's my fault."

The waiter scoffs, the boldness of the reaction surprising Aziraphale so much he falters and allows the man to collect the remaining pieces in a dumbfounded silence. When the man stands he lets his eyes roam over the physique of the middle aged waiter and has to refrain himself from biting his lip in approval.

He shifts in his seat, instead, and mutters a thanks. "I'm sorry about this," he adds.

It's the waiter's turn to frown. "Sir, it's my job to clean up your messes."

There's a playfulness to his voice that Aziraphale finds himself drawn to. "And it's my job to apologize if I've done something wrong."

"Well," the waiter grins, "that seems to be an interesting job. I've never heard of it before, frankly."

"Oh," Aziraphale nods, feeling bold enough to add a certain  _ je-ne-sais-quoi _ to his tone when he tilts his head towards the man, "Then I must introduce you to it, then." Seeing the man glance down at the broken shards of glass on his tray he huffs. "Do throw those into the trash and come back here."

The man does as he is told, and when he returns he bears an empty tray and an awkward half-smile on his very thin lips. "Your job, then, sir, what is it like?"

Aziraphale laughs. "Oh, you wouldn't like it. It's tedious. I apologize for everything, whether it's my fault or not. Even when I'm doing things right. That's what the failure of the family does, you know. Of a rich one even more so."

"I don't know you well enough to make assumptions," admits the waiter, shrugging, his eyes skimming quickly towards the crowd then back to Mr. Fell, "but if you're just a tad nicer than those pricks over there, you're a thousand times better, and not a failure."

"You're rather boldly spoken, dear," muses Aziraphale, shifting in his seat again. "Do you often insult your employers, or is this a special occasion?"

"I'd say it's a special occasion," the waiter hums, propping himself against Aziraphale's armchair. 

_ He's at arm's length. _

It takes all his willpower to suppress the need to extend his hand and lay it on that same end of his armchair.

"Anyway," the ginger haired waiter man begins, looking down at the plump man with a glint of a tease in his almost golden eyes. "What sort of paper makes you drink two glasses of champagne and consequently drop one of them on the floor?"

"Oh." A deep, crimson flush spreads on Aziraphale's face and he wrinkles the paper in an attempt to cover its contents. "The glasses of champagne were to drown out the constant chatter and music and let my head swim in the right direction."

"Ah, you're a writer then, using many words to evade the main subject."

Aziraphale arches an eyebrow. His legs cross of their own volition, but he doesn't let his mind dwell on the reasons. Instead, he props his chin against the palm of his hand and eyes the younger man. "You've caught me, red handed. Alas, I am writing a pamphlet, of sorts."

"I didn't know there were many sorts of pamphlets," teases the waiter.

"Ah, there are. For one, this is a pamphlet that shall never be published." 

He doesn't want it to sound as sad as it does, but the softness in the other man's eyes indicates that he has noticed the pain in the admission regardless. 

This time when the man speaks, he sounds gentler. "Touchy subject, or are you not important enough?"

Aziraphale smiles weakly and averts the intense gaze uncomfortably. "Touchy subject, and I'm  _ too _ important to publish it."

"I've never known anyone too important being afraid of what the public may think of him," the waiter muses, laughing gingerly as his eyes once again skim to the crowd and pointedly looks at Aziraphale's cousin Gabriel.

"I'm not just afraid, dear boy," he says almost in a whisper, "I'm terrified. Of prison, of the public shame, of  _ death _ . This isn't a subject for this century, or the ones after. The world may never go forward, after all."

The waiter seems to understand. "The world never goes forward, however, if one doesn't dare to take the step forward and let the others follow him."

The words hit Aziraphale so deep he stares up at the man in near reverence. He knows, deep down, it's true, but he also knows he's not brave enough, never has been. Never brave enough to make the first step with a man he likes, nor to tell his family of his preferences, nor to even marry a woman just to protect his own reputation.

Always hidden, always in the shadows.

And the man seems to understand.

They stare at each other in silence, both taking in the words and the hidden meanings. Then Aziraphale clears his throat and sighs raggedly.

"I'm afraid I'm, well," he laughs bitterly in-between words, "too afraid. Always have been."

The waiter nods. "If I may be so bold, then, sir, allow me to tell you that though the world may never accept homosexuality, that doesn't mean you defending it, in your own private way, isn't an act of bravery."

"Wh— how?" Aziraphale can't help but gape, his eyes widening in shock. A deep flush colors his cheeks and spreads to his chest that he's quite sure has grown tenfold and is now trying to free itself from the shirt's bounds. In a daze, he realizes he's actually choking, and he tries, in vain, to unfasten the bowtie and open his buttons, his fingers fumbling at the cloth frantically.

_ A panic attack, in front of a waiter. Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. He knows I'm a homosexual. He knows. He knows. _

Slim fingers tap at his own and force them aside, helping him untie the bowtie in a mere second. The relief isn't instantaneous, but is soon followed by a bigger relief when two, three buttons pop.

He whines when those soft hands leave his throat and through half-lidded eyes he sees the man leave, a sinking feeling settling in his gut.

_ Don't leave me. Oh, I've made him uncomfortable. He knows of my preferences and he wants to get as far away as possible. _

But then the man returns with a glass of water that he forces to Aziraphale's lips and in a matter of minutes, he finally calms down. When he notices a hand stroking his damp hair he nearly chokes again, the flush deepening, but he manages to keep himself steady and the hand retreats.

"I'm sorry."

"Ah, returning to your job, I see," the waiter teases.

"I've never abandoned it."

The man nods. "Unlike me." He smiles sheepishly, a similar flush spreading on his pale, freckled cheeks. "I think I should go now. Will I see you around? I'd like to discuss your pamphlet more, and your ideas, if it's possible."

It takes Aziraphale a moment too late to realize what the man is proposing and with a crestfallen look the waiter turns to leave.

"Wait!" he calls shamelessly and relishes in the soft smile on the waiter's lips. "I own a bookshop down in Soho, and it's my most private property. If you could come over there tomorrow, that'd be lovely. We could, ah," he coughs, "discuss."

The waiter dips his head. "I'd love that."

He turns to leave again, and Aziraphale remembers then. "What's your name?"

The man turns around again and grins. "Crowley."

Aziraphale, he decides, likes the way Crowley sounds in his head and on his tongue.

  
  
  


**Crowley, 6th May, 1895**

  
  


Crowley never frets. It's just a thing. He  _ doesn't _ fret. What should he be fretting over, anyway? He has no good clothes except his work clothes and even his gloves have torn now after picking up that glass the other day, and he doesn't work often enough to wear those clothes anyway. Most of the time he wears worn-down clothes and sells drugs to rich punks, really.

It's a simple life, simple world. Even when he occasionally lets a rich man take him to bed he doesn't fret, because why would he? It's one-night stands, always, and he doesn't need to fret over those.

So why the  _ fuck _ is he fretting over how uneven his bowtie looks? This rich man won't be different, surely, with his sweet looks and his soft hair, and his panic attacks over his homosexuality. All he needs to do is bed him, steal his money, then leave forever.

His heart squeezes painfully at the thought.

_ No, shut up. Business, same as always _ .

But the bowtie simply won't straighten! Of course, the irony doesn't fly over his head. There is nothing straight, after all, about what he means to do. 

He shakes his head and loosens his bowtie, discarding it on his mattress. Technically not his. Hastur's. He's lending it to him, though Crowley still can't figure out why. Hastur hates him, but seems to also have enough mattresses to spare. 

Something about not liking to have too many copies of one thing and about the practicality of owning one version of a thing.

Crowley always snarks at him that the cigarettes he rolls are never only one and he's lucky the man hasn't kicked him out on all fours yet.

The lack of a bowtie makes him feel almost naked, as if he's being too forward, and he frankly quite enjoys the feeling of a drunken man loosening his bowtie for him and then unbuttoning his—  _ Alright. I'll wear a tie, at least. Can't mess up a tie, can you? _

Turns out you can, but he lets it slide. 

The broken clock above him as always ticks five in the morning but he has learned to calculate the time by himself well enough to know it's actually near tea time, which is a perfect time to pass by.

They haven't decided a time, after all.

He hums quietly while walking to the bookshop which he manages to find thanks to a few instructions from hushing passersby that advise him to find another bookshop, if he doesn't want anything Queer to happen to him.

_ I want something very queer to happen to me. I want him to push me against a desk and tear me apart. I've seen the way he was crossing his legs. He wants it, too. _

When he knocks on the door, he holds his breath in anticipation. 

"It's open!" the chirpy voice of the fancy aristocrat calls and inadvertently Crowley's heart skips a beat in response.

_ Bugger that. _

He pushes the door open and walks in quietly, watching in amazement the amount of books lining up on the shelves. In full display he finds The Picture of Dorian Gray, a choice of book so cheeky to display Crowley can't help but smile in admiration.

He gets so caught up in the magic of the books, the smell filling his nostrils and the soft breeze of the wind seeping in through the cracks he completely forgets the reason of his visit, and the man he is visiting.

"Ah, dear, there you are!" the plump man greets him with a wide smile, his eyes crinkling at his corners and tugging at Crowley's heartstrings.  _ This is only professional,  _ he reminds himself. "I gather you've taken quite a liking to my collection, then."

The scoundrel nods. "Yes, I have. Some of these seem to be  _ original copies. _ "

The rich man — Aziraphale, was it is his name? — laughs. "Yes, there are some things you can easily accomplish with money and some strings pulled, I suppose. And I'm a rather big fan of books, original copies I'm jealous of. Anytime anyone dares touch them, a part of me wants to kick them out."

"And another?"

Aziraphale appears taken back by the question, then blushes. "I'm afraid there isn't another part. I always make up an excuse to make them leave."

Crowley decides to take the chance and inches closer to a worn out copy of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, his fingers brushing softly against the hard papers. "Will you kick me out, then, sir?"

Aziraphale visibly blanches, torn apart between two wants. "I should," he admits. "But you've chosen an interesting book. Why that one in particular?"

Now it's Crowley's turn to be taken aback. He frowns, a faint flush coloring his cheeks and chest. "The idea of a rich man changing his entire perspective of life to help the poor and invest in helping those in need always struck me as a noble one." He shrugs when he sees Aziraphale's eyes going soft to deflect the situation. "And I kind of like a rich man finally getting enough of a scare to do the right thing."

The last statement clearly upsets Aziraphale as the man retreats slightly in his shell and glances down at his backroom. "I'm afraid there's no scare big enough that could make me wish to go to prison, if that's what you mean, Mr. Crowley."

_ Mr. Crowley. No. Don't call me Mr. Crowley. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. _

To demonstrate his thoughts he closes the distance between them and lays a tentative hand on the man's forearm. "You don't have to do anything. I was referring to those who are rich and don't give back in  _ any  _ way. And not in the Victorian tradition of giving to charity for that's just a way to separate people into classes, but being kind to workers, and maybe helping kids in need. Selfless acts of kindness."

"I'm, uh, afraid, you think too highly of me if you think I—I may sometimes—but it's nothing, really, nothing."

Crowley shakes his head. "I can spot a snob from a mile, and you aren't one."

He sees the resolve crumble beneath the man and he knows this would be the perfect moment to demonstrate his words with a pinning kiss, and a perhaps a blowjob, but there's something in the man before him that makes him wish to try harder.

So he moves away.

"What's your favorite book or perhaps play, apart from, very clearly, Picture of Dorian Gay— Gray?" 

Aziraphale hums, appearing pensive. A small wrinkle appears on the bridge of his nose and his lips purse. Crowley can't help but wonder what it would be like to kiss those lips.

He straightens his posture and curses himself. He could easily use the man for his own pleasure, and he definitely shouldn't be getting to know him, but there's something that draws him to the blond-haired man like a moth to a flame, and he's helpless.

"I rather like Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen," admits the older man after a pause, his fingers tapping some sort of rhythm on his desk. "I like the implication of an emotional, poorer person falling in love with a rich but socially awkward person that doesn't know how to show their emotions rightfully and therefore pushes the other person away, until they come together, realizing their love is stronger."

"You like a richer man taking advantage of a poorer one?" Unlike Aziraphale, he doesn't try and pretend this isn't about two men.

Aziraphale falters. "No, I suppose not. Poor choice of book. I don't know what I was thinking."

Crowley's heart squeezes at the fallen tone. He takes a step towards the man and shakes his head. "Do you believe, anyway, that the poor man could ever be good enough, pure enough for the rich one? Even with a past not so sweet?"

A second chin appears on Aziraphale's features as he tries to back away slightly from the attention, pushing himself against a bookshelf. "Of course!" he chirps. "One's worth isn't determined by one's social status or the past that said social status has caused."

A lump grows in Crowley's.  _ I really want to believe that. _ But he knows the man is deluded. Crowley may be a good enough waiter, but there are things he doubts the man expects, ever could.

Suddenly he doesn't feel like flirting. Doesn't feel like tricking this man into a one-night stand and stealing his money afterward and stealing away in the night, as he so often has.

"Some people's status can push them too far."

Aziraphale shakes his head. There's a sudden boldness in his eyes as he lays a hand on Crowley's arm and sighs. "It's never too far to turn towards the right path."

He scoffs. "You must be an angel, and deluded, to believe that," he says bitterly. "I'm too far gone, angel."

The man blushes at the nickname, but his eyes narrow in a firm disagreement. "If you were, I wouldn't want to do this."

And then the man's soft lips are against and he's somehow getting pushed against the surface of a desk, books tumbling to the floor. He reacts back fairly quickly, tilting his head to allow the kiss to deepen, relishing in the soft moan that escapes the man's mouth. His tongue slips only on their second kiss, though, when the man grabs onto his thighs and pushes them apart, his knee pressing against the hot erection painfully growing in his breeches. 

"Wait," he moans when they part for breath again, struggling not to rip the man's clothes when the knee presses into a better spot now. "Wait," he repeats weakly, "we can't do this."

Aziraphale glances at him through glazed eyes. "Why?"

Crowley pants. "Because it's not right. You say— You say I can change, but I can't do another one-night stand if I want to change." 

The pain in his voice catches something in Aziraphale's heart for the man shift slightly, his thigh no longer pressing at the erection, but his hands don't leave their posts. "It doesn't have to be a one-night stand, then. It can be more stands. Or more than that. It can grow into anything, dear. I've never been bold enough to do this," the man laughs at some own internal joke, "but I assure you, I've never been surer I want something than right now."

Crowley gulps, leaning towards the man without even thinking. "Why?"

"You're clever, and you challenge me. I like that in a man."

The part-time waiter arches an eyebrow. "I must say the same about you, then. And, you're not a snob for a rich man. I like that in a man," he mimics and his heart skips when the man before him chuckles ever so freely.

Then the man's expression changes and a smirk paints on his lips as his hand slides to Crowley's erection once again. "Now, I think I have a rather big matter to take care of."

And with that, he kneels and Crowley is sure he sees stars when the laces of his breeches are untied and he feels the man's warm mouth on him.

_ Oh _ , he reckons,  _ this definitely cannot be just a one-night stand. _


End file.
